


Stretch Me Out On A Blanket Of Sky

by leiascully



Series: Five Times Kara Thrace Kissed A Girl And Liked It [1]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), F/F, Pilots, Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Available, Podfic Length: 10-20 Minutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-11
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-03 07:12:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A couple of drinks at Joe's and you're spoiling for a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: S1  
> A/N: Title from a line in Kirsty MacColl's "Head". Thanks to [**coffeesuperhero**](http://coffeesuperhero.livejournal.com/), who said, "Why isn't it Kara/Kendra?" but read it anyway. Dear girl pilots, the things you do to me are illegal in several states. Fortunately, they're not illegal in space.  
> Disclaimer: _Battlestar Galactica_ and all related characters belong to Ronald Moore, NBC Universal, Sci-Fi Channel, and Sky One. No infringement is intended and no profit is made from this.

A couple of drinks at Joe's and you're spoiling for a fight, calling Racetrack _Marge_ just to watch her eyes flash. Another couple of drinks and you can't even remember your own name, but it's not the alcohol muddling your brain: she's got you pressed up against the hull of her Raptor, her mouth so hot and sweet it's impossible to breathe, much less think. This corner of the deck is deserted and the empty air swallows up the moans you can't help. Racetrack rips down the zipper on your flightsuit and has her hand up between your tits before you have time to gasp.

It's been a shitty day: dogfights, asteroids, dumbass nugget mistakes from your pilots. You still think of them as yours even though Lee's CAG and they belong to him. You went after him first ("Apollo, Starbuck. Let's show them how it's done"). Flying against Lee always makes you slick as hell. The rush of adrenaline hits you deep in the belly when you know it's him on your wing or in your crosshairs. He's swapped planes before, trying to hide from you, but you can always pick him out in a crowd: nobody gets onto your tail like Lee does. It's almost better than frakking, the way you anticipate him, the satisfaction when your blanks spatter across his canopy. He nearly managed to outfox you today and you're still tingling from it - the rare occasion when Lee manages to best you, the smug look on his face makes you want to rip all his clothes off and remind him who's in charge, punishment and reward rolled up together in your rack.

So Lee wound you up and Kat almost killed you. Lee saved her as an example after a couple of near disasters from pilots who ought to have known better. She's gotten good, real good, but gods damn it, she flew sloppy today, nearly took you and Hot Dog out with a bad roll. "Get her," Lee said to you on a private channel, and that sizzle went through you again. You hit the gas feeling like an avenging angel. She took off, came a hair from plastering herself over an asteroid, and practically scraped your canopy flipping her bird. You swore so that only Lee could hear and spun on your tail. You would have been proud at her if there'd been any kind of precision to her run, but she was flying like a frakkin' nugget with a gods complex, no inspiration, just drunk and stupid. You had to chase her to hell and gone before Lee called her out, and then even in formation drills, she wobbled all over dradis until you were gritting your teeth, your back all twisted up with a new kind of tension. You slammed out of your cockpit and hit the deck ready to deck somebody, but Lee grabbed your shoulder and held you in his patented Adama grip of steely authority until you slapped him away and headed for the bar, not even bothering to shed your flightsuit, and you found Racetrack leaning up against the bar.

Racetrack squeezes your tits, flicking her thumb over your nipple, and you're slick all over again. "Didn't know you frakked girls," you gasp, your hands wound into her hair. She must have washed and changed after her shift, because she smells like soap and her shoulders are bare above the neckline of her shirt, which makes it convenient for you to put your tongue into the channel of her collarbone and your teeth into the side of her neck where her collar won't hide it tomorrow.

"Didn't know you cared who you were frakking," she growls, her thigh rubbing between your legs until your back arches. She jams her free fingers into the hatch release and has you spread over the Raptor's deck before you can protest. You're still reorienting yourself as she drags the hatch closed and drops down over you. Her knees dig into your waist and her heels brace against your thighs so that you can't spread your legs to ease the throb in your cunt. She pins both your hands over your head, leaning down until her loose hair brushes your cheekbones and throat.

"What are you waiting for?" you challenge her, pretending she can't tell your body is begging for her touch. She smirks.

"Can you follow directions?" she asks, and doesn't wait for an answer before she swings her chest in range of your mouth. You reach out with your tongue and find her nipple straining through the fabric of bra and shirt. She's hard, but you tease her harder, scraping circles with your teeth. The circle of your lips leaves a damp spot on her shirt and you lick until the cloth is as damp and pliable as skin. She makes grunting little sighs, her breath coming in fits. Suddenly she shifts, pulling her tit out of your mouth, and crosses your wrists, reaching down as she settles back and pushes her other breast between your lips. Her free hand is between your legs, rubbing you through the flight suit, and even through the thick material, the pressure is incredible. You suck fiercely on her nipple, stroking it with your tongue until you know she's aching. You strain against her palm, needing more, and bite down as gently as you can manage. She hisses between her teeth and sits up, stripping shirt and bra off over her head. She drops down to her hands again, brushing her bare tits against your lips. You reach for them, but she's already sliding down your body, jerking the zipper of your suit down the rest of the way. You shimmy out of it, overheated. Racetrack strips you down with a wicked efficiency. You bite your lip against the chill of the air against your sensitive skin, but almost before she's jerked the flightsuit all the way off your legs, Racetrack has her tongue between your thighs, and your body turns to liquid.

"Oh gods," you exhale. "Marge."

"Don't call me that," she says against the inside crease of your thigh, punctuating the remark with her teeth. Your legs tighten and your body jumps. The metal deck knocks the bones of your spine, making your bones jangle, but Racetrack laps along your folds and suddenly the tingle is all pleasure instead of pain.

"Margaret," you try. "Maggie, Meg, Edddddmonton," the consonants catch your tongue behind your teeth, "oh gods, _Racetrack_." All your attention is focused between your legs on the suction of her mouth on your clit, the texture of her tongue as she adds her slickness to your own. It's like she's pulling your entire body into her mouth. Your fingers scrabble on the deck trying to hold on; it feels like the world is tipping under you. Her tongue rolls over you and you don't know which way is up. You're gasping like the O2's running short; the air seems thin, hot and cold, no atmosphere to shield you. She's got her fingers there too now, everything so hot and smooth you're not sure which pressure is her tongue and which is her hand, but godsdammit, she's _good_ at this. You're flat on the deck except where the small of your back arches up. She changes something, twists or presses or sucks, and it sends a shiver through you that has your head rattling against the deck and your toes curling. You're so swollen with need that you can feel your own walls pressing in around her fingers. Desperate for more contact, you reach out for her, lunging up. She sits back, her eyes narrowed. You catch her by the bicep. Your grip slips - you're both sweating - and you adjust your grasp and check your balance, holding her elbow for a moment and then, as you manage to stay up despite the spinning world, you stroke her breast with the tips of your fingers. Her eyelashes flutter just a fraction. You let your hand slip lower, brushing down her stomach until your palm rests on her thigh. You tease her hesitantly with your thumb. Her hips tighten and she tilts her pelvis against your hand. Racetrack is patient, almost. She licks her lips, waiting for you to do something, and your stomach flips at the thought of her savoring your taste on her lips.

"Please," you say, half-swallowing the word. You're not even sure what you're asking, but Racetrack smiles. She leans forward and stops a breath from your lips.

"That's not a word you use."

"Just do it, okay?" you say, and to your embarrassment, your mouth trembles. Her eyes are huge at this distance. You can't focus on her at all. She's so close that when she grins, you feel it, and then her mouth is against yours again and she's pinned you to the deck again. You're kissing her desperately, pressing your body into hers everywhere you can. Your arms are around her. One of your hands catches the ends of her hair between her shoulder blades; the other is down her skirt, the one skirt she owns, and Lords of Kobol, you always knew she was clever, because she's got nothing on underneath but her peach-soft skin. You can't remember the last time you actually had a peach, but you stroke her skin and remember summer and sunshine. Her ass fits perfectly into the cup of your palm.

Her mouth is demanding against yours. She nips at your lip and her teeth click against yours. You push back harder and slide your fingers over her ass until you can just barely dip into her. She makes a startled little noise that turns into a grumble of satisfaction as you explore her, reaching for her entrance. She is surprisingly wet, incandescently hot in the chill of the Raptor, though the heat of your bodies is warming the air now. You groan yourself with wanting her. It's frustrating: you can't reach far enough. You kiss her harder, dragging your mouth across hers, your other arm tight around her. Her hands are at your shoulder and hip and her fingers dig in until it almost hurts. Her belly slides against yours where your shirt is pulled up. She pushes her knee up between your legs, not breaking the kiss but lifting her hips until your hand catches in her waistband and drops away. You whimper.

"Please," you say. You touch her thigh but your hand slips to the damp hollow of her knee.

"That's twice in one day," she says, smirking. "Probably twice in your life."

"Please," you say again, gritting your teeth against how much you want her to frak you and how much you want to touch her too.

"Third time's the charm," she says, batting her eyes at you, and rubs her knee against the top of your thigh. You push against her, rolling your hips, and she plants one hand in the center of your chest and drags her fingers all the way down your front. Her head follows her hand and she laps briefly at your cunt, making you squirm, but she stops too soon and leaves you biting your lip. She kisses down the inside of your thigh and around the scar where Cottle cut open your knee, carefully turning to straddle you. You're hypnotized by the pale backs of her thighs as she edges backwards, kissing her way up your leg now, and you put your hands up to hold her legs as she dips her head and your body dissolves again.

She eases down inch by inch and you press your mouth to her damp skin, needing something against your lips, needing her, but gods, she moves so slowly, settling her elbows and knees. You thank the Lords that she had a skirt with her the day the world ended, because all you have to do is push the fabric up around her waist and then finally, finally you can have her. Your body's starlight from the neck down, but you still have the presence of mind to find her center with your fingers and push your tongue inside her. She tastes like summer, too, that decadent salt heat. The tang of her is like your own flavor, when you've tasted it before on men's skin, and you lave her with your tongue until she's moaning, wanting more. You're frakking her with your fingers, putting your tongue wherever you can reach, blind and desperate with pleasure, slamming toward your release like flying this morning when you hit the accelerator and used the curve of the asteroid to pull you around, the incredible pressure of fifteen gee and the anticipation of the moment you'd crest it, feeling like your body was about to fly into a million pieces and become part of the universe like the stars. Except this time it's the curve of Racetrack's wrist and the vibration of her lips against your clit as you make her moan and the pressure of her fingers inside you, and the stars seem to be all around you in the cockpit of the Raptor. You're gasping into the crease of her thigh, thrusting with fingers and hips, wild against her, and she presses into you and you're gone. Gone, gone, out of your skin, dissipated into the electric air, except that your fingers are still anchored in her cunt and she's trembling too, and you want to make her shatter.

You frak her harder, faster; your fingers are shivering and your wrist is aching, but she's got her forehead jammed against your leg and you can't just leave her that way, need pushing her just as hard as gravity. You push your other hand down to stroke her breasts where they're flattened against her belly, and you tweak her nipple to make her gasp. She retaliates by biting your leg. You jump and swear and slide your fingers out of her, wrapping your slick hand around her hips to pull her down farther, plumbing her with your tongue until her teeth are flat on your skin, no edges, because she's breathing too hard even to kiss you there. Her hips stay when you let go, so you brace her wide with your fingers, three inside her and your thumb making circles over her clit, your tongue in the crease of her thigh. Her body's almost flat against yours, her feet braced, and you feel inside her for the sweet spot you know is there. She almost shrieks; her hips buck; you snatch your hand back from her breast, probably dragging at her skin, and hold her waist as her body shakes, your cheek braced against her thigh.

After a moment she lets out a long shivery breath and lifts her shin over your head, slumping to the deck beside you. You turn your face and press an idle kiss to her knee. The world still won't come into focus. Your sweaty shirt is rucked up uncomfortably around your ribs. The light seems more diffuse than usual and you realize the canopy is slightly foggy, as if there weren't enough clichés in the world. You can't help laughing, and you can't stop once you start, and Racetrack is giggling too, her wrinkled fingers clasped around your ankle.

"Oh, frak me," you say finally, your ribs aching.

"Yeah," she says, stretching like a cat. "Not bad at all. Maybe next time I'll let you get me drunk."

"Maybe next time I'll let you take all my clothes off," you say, and drag yourself up her body until you can reach her mouth.

"Hah," she says, "likewise," and you hide your face in her neck, but you stay.


	2. Podfic: Stretch Me Out On A Blanket Of Sky

[Listen at Soundcloud](https://soundcloud.com/leiascully/stretch-me-out-on-a-blanket-of)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Because pearwaldorf requested it. Read by the author.


End file.
